Possibly A Bit Very Not Good
by she-with-the-pen
Summary: Never, ever let an author near the TARDIS, because you might just find that their fictional characters aren't so fictional anymore. The world of 221B has just become a whole lot more dangerous, and it's up to Amy and the Doctor to save the famous sleuth.
1. A Tin of Beans

_Author's Note_: So, it's just the Doctor and Amy in this first part, but the Sherlock universe comes into play soon. Reviews are always appreciated, but most of all, I hope you enjoy the story!

Prologue **OR** How the Platypus Came To Be **OR **A Tin of Beans

Amy Pond glanced at the Doctor, and, for the tenth time that day he avoided her eyes. This might or might not have to do with the fact that a mess of wires was dangling from the wall of the TARDIS, spouting angry electrical sparks. Either way, it was time to speak up.

"And you're sure we couldn't stop for a bite? Not even a five minute stop?"

"No," he said immediately, as if they hadn't been silent for hours, as if they were continuing a conversation and he knew exactly how it was going to end.

"No, you're _not_ sure we couldn't stop, as in, we _could_ stop?"

"No, as in, no we can't stop."

"But we went six galaxies and a century out of our way because _you _had a hankering for a sandwich with the original Earl of Sandwich. And now you're telling me that we can't stop for a minute even though I've gone for _forty-eight hours _without food?"

"Yes. Oh, don't go on looking at me like that, it's not _my _fault. The monosynchronicity control pad's gone all faulty, so we can't land for at least another four hours, or else—"

Here Amy rolled her eyes towards the heavens (or whatever was above the ceiling of the TARDIS at that moment), gestured grandly, and did her best to mimic the Doctor's voice.

"All time and space will go collapsing in on itself, the universe will divide, the stars will turn into cannibalistic rainbow-puking ponies!"

"Cannibalistic _ponies_?"

"Shut up. I'm hungry. _I_ might go cannibalistic if I have to wait much longer." She turned her back to him and stomped off.

Just then, several valves behind the Doctor filled with purple smoke, a lever popped right out of the switchboard, and a shrill ringing started up under the glass floors.

"Hang on a minute Pond, just stand back—Amy?"

The Doctor braced his knee against another row of levers to keep them in place whilst his hands fiddled with the valves (whose sides were now covered in spidery cracks leaking little wisps of plum colored smoke).

"Pond, I didn't mean that. Pond, come back here NOW! _Oh no, no, no, no! _There it goes!"

-Five Minutes Later-

"—not asking for anything fancy. Fish and chips. Hardtack with the pilgrims. Anything! What's that smell-"

"Yeah. Didn't hear me, did you?" asked a sooty, singed, hair-on-end, positively raggedy Doctor.

"No, I didn't. Er, are you all right?" she asked, looking guilty.

"Fine, fine. And I stopped the control room from imploding, in case you were interested."

The concern melted instantly from her face to be replaced by suspicion.

"Right. Then why didn't you tell me we had food in the TARDIS?"

"Because we don't! Have you gone delusional? Good God Pond, remind me never to catch you before you've had a proper breakfast."

"But it's right here. Crisps and biscuits—"

"Ok, off to the therapist with you, soon as we can land. It's been a long time since I've seen old Freud."

She ignored him.

"—And beans"

"NO!" He shouted suddenly. He looked quite as frightened as if he had seen a Cyberman exchange compliments with a Dalek.

"What are you on about?"

"Those aren't beans."

"Then what are they?"

"Just—just set them down. Right there, that's right."

"Are they magic beans?" Amy asked mischievously. "Will they grow a gigantic beanstalk with a castle on top if I drop them?

"No, well they could, I mean—Just leave them. You didn't open that tin at all did you?"

He passed his screwdriver over the top of the tin and seemed a little pacified.

"Seems we're alright. But you, you very nearly unleashed the most dangerous thing in the universe."

"And what might that be?"

"Your mind."

"Doctor, that tin of beans is not my mind."

"Yes it is. Most of the species that know about them call them Pearls of Gaia, or some translation of that. What they actually are are shattered bits of the center of the universe, splinters of the beginning of creation."

"Nope, not getting it."

"Amy. These are the pieces that never got used. They haven't formed yet, and so, whenever they come into contact with a living, thinking being, like a hungry Pond, they take whatever shape you're thinking about, whatever's in your head. How do you think we ended up with the platypus?"

"They can't be all that dangerous though."

"It's better than that. When one of these takes shape, it creates a whole timeline for itself, interwoven into the timeline we know, like it always existed. Just think of the havoc your mind would reek. We'd all be fleeing from monstrous Shetlands by now.

"Alright. Point taken…I think. But when you say that whatever is created gets woven through the universe, do you mean to say that—"

"There are platypuses in almost every galaxy, but they're secretive little buggers…"

He froze for a moment, staring into the distance before snapping back to awareness.

"Excuse my saying so, but you've never been chased down by one of them. The ones in the Minellan System spit acid."

"Ok Doctor. Little pieces of universe, platypuses. I just have one more question. What are they doing in a tin of beans?"

"Easy. The most powerful, important things in the universe, I had to keep them somewhere. Wouldn't want to mix them up with something innocent now, would I?

"Beans?"

"Beans are evil."


	2. The Invention of a Sleuth

A/N: This chapter was partly based on the opera that J.M. Barrie and Conan Doyle worked together on, and _The Adventure of the Two Collaborators_ by J.M. Barrie, which everyone should read because it's really short and really awesome. Also, many thanks to Merlin Lover, thefireplanet, Sandyangel, Idoloni, 145796213, DetectiveConanFan13, HotaruNoHaku, Kuroi In A Black Hole, Pinkemotwilightlover, Starryskies2night, the laughing hermit, and thomaseliot for the reviews, favorites, and alerts :)

Mr. Barrie Is Not Available **OR** The Invention of a Sleuth

After the incident with the tin of beans, everything went back to normal in the TARDIS. The Doctor and Amy were the very best of friends and they were almost never cross, impatient, or oblivious. Except for this instance.

"Doctor, you're doing it again."

"Doing what?" he asked, although he was more concerned with scraping a rather sinister blue slime off his coat.

"Forgetting something."

"Oh, yes," he said, finally paying attention to her. Melancholy stole over him.

"I'm always forgetting something…."

He shook his head and grinned broadly.

"That's alright, because I'm always remembering something too. Sometimes five things!"

He had not noticed that the blue slime had slowly crept up and around his shoulders

"I was more thinking of one thing in particular that you might remember. Doctor?"

He looked blankly at her.

"Oh! You're like Peter Pan!"

"Peter Pan? No! Space Gandalf maybe, but not some flighty-wighty juvenal runaway in green spandex!"

"No. You sir, are Peter Pan. I was always thinking about what it would be like to run away to Neverland when I was a kid—"

"Hey!" the Doctor said, looking offended.

"Oh, that was _before _I knew about the TARDIS. But it doesn't matter, does it? Because you're exactly the same as Peter Pan! Take people on great adventures—"

The Doctor smiled proudly and straightened his bowtie.

"—but you don't care a whit if the food is real or imaginary!"

The smile dropped from his face.

"And lately… it's all been imaginary!" Amy finished angrily.

"Amy, did you take something off my coat?" the Doctor asked suddenly, looking frightened.

"Of course not—"

"You're absolutely sure? You didn't brush up against it or something?"

"No. And stop trying to sidetrack me. I might be the Girl Who Waited, but I'm not waiting another ten seconds for food. See," she said, closing her eyes and leaning against the console. "I'm going to count down—"

"Where is it!"

"—And when I get to zero, we'd better be landed in the middle of a deli. Ten. Nine."

"Got it!"

Amy smirked triumphantly, not knowing the Doctor was referring to the long blue blob he was grasping by one end (the other end was wrapped around his throat).

"Amy, just one moment, if you wouldn't mind, could you—"

"Six. Five. No. Nothing until we land."

"Erm, Amy, I promise—"

"Bit hard to land the TARDIS while your shouting at me, isn't it?"

"Amy, I gloughdklsjfkld—"

"Three."

There was a great scuffling, a _squiiiiiish_, and finally a THU-WUMP that made Amy open her eyes before the countdown was finished.

"Doctor?"

He held up a finger for her to wait while he waved his screwdriver at a copper box on the floor. A lot of intricate, interlocking metal parts came together before her eyes.

"Amelia. I'm starting to think that very bad things happen when you don't get your tea in time," he said, massaging his neck.

"Yeah..." Amy said without any conviction. She was eying the box, which had started to rattle, and the floor all around, which was slippery with something like blue grease.

"Not to worry. That one was my fault. I should have remembered they're attracted to elbow patches, honestly. But no! I've gone and smashed my Jammy Dodgers!" he cried, pouring sticky crumbs out of his pocket.

"_You_," said Amy. "You had Jammy Dodgers in your pocket and you didn't think to mention it?"

"Er, yes. But they're for emergencies…and, and I forgot. But we're going to land now! Somewhere with food, yes!" He edged over to the console, avoiding her accusing eyes. He had just pulled a few levers when the TARDIS made the familiar groaning sound that accompanied landing. Amy threw the doors open and—

"Not _yet, _Pond. Not unless you fancy ice fishing…"

Amy slammed the doors just as an enormous black nose on the end of an equally enormous white snout came into view.

"Got to find someplace safe to drop _that _off," said the Doctor, pointing to the box.

The TARDIS halted again and the doors opened onto a futuristic looking lobby. The Doctor handed the shuddering box to one of the many beings walking around in silver suits and helmets (who didn't look at all surprised to see him), jumped back into the TARDIS, and started prodding madly at the console again.

"Right. You like Peter Pan? How about a visit with J.M. Barrie himself, then?"

Amy narrowed her eyes and said nothing.

"And he serves up a mean Scotch pie."

* * *

><p>"So we're just going to knock on the front door and he'll let us in?"<p>

"Well it'd be a bit weird to go knocking in the back door, wouldn't it? Besides, he's an old friend. I helped him remove a very nasty Durrillian masquerading as a crocodile in his duck pond."

"You—wait, a crocodile! You _are_ Peter Pan!"

"Don't be ridiculous," The Doctor said as he wrapped on the door three times. It was immediately yanked open and they were faced with an imposingly large man. He had a moustache.

"Mr. Barrie?" Amy started, but the Doctor clapped a hand over her mouth.

"This isn't James Barrie."

"No. Mr. Barrie is not available."

"Oh?" protested the Doctor. He checked his watch. "Ah, I suppose that could be right. Then that makes you…"

"I'm Arthur Doyle."

Amy batted the Doctor's hand away.

"_The _Sir Arthur Conan Doyle? As in Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't know about Sir. And as for Mr. Holmes, I expect I'll be doing away with him very shortly."

"Doing away with him? What? No!"

"Oh, that's what everyone says! They'll never let me get on with anything serious! Well if they want ridiculous, I'll give it to them…"

The Doctor slid his foot in the door just in time.

"Ouch! Excuse my friend Mr. Doyle, but I really would like to see Mr. Barrie, however long he might be."

"Oh? Why? Who are you?"

"I'm the Doctor."

"You don't look like any doctor I've seen," Doyle grumbled, taking in the colourful bowtie and braces and the glowing splashes of blue on the Doctor's boots. Perhaps he saw in the Doctor's expression that he wouldn't leave, or perhaps he just didn't want the neighbors to see such an outlandish visitor standing on the doorstep. At any rate, he let them in.

"Very well. The coatrack's there. The Simpertons decided not to come for supper after all, so you may as well have their places."

"Oh, _thank you_," said Amy with bright eyes. "It's been _ages _since we've had a proper meal!"

Doyle stared oddly at her for a moment before turning.

"Now, you two may wait in the sitting room until supper. I have work to be getting on with."

"Are you working on a new mystery?"

"No," he said with a frown. "And if all you've come to do is pester me about that blasted imaginary sleuth called Holmes, I'm afraid I must see you straight out the door again."

"Again, my apologies Mr. Doyle, for my enthusiastic friend. But we really must stay. When will Mr. Barrie be available?"

"He won't. He's ill."

"Ill!" cried the Doctor. "Is he all right?"

"Why are you asking me? You're the doctor. Go up there and see for yourself. As it is, I don't care. I have work to do, because he's left me half a blasted opera to finish for him while _he _has a lie-in! Do you hear that, old boy?" He shouted suddenly. He seized the coatrack and rapped the ceiling with it. "I don't care! I hope you're bloody well miserable!"

Even the Doctor jumped at this surprising change of tone. Before he or Amy could do anything, their eyes were drawn to a flash of movement at the top of the stairs. A moment later they realized they were seeing a tiny man (no more than five feet) holding a gigantic harpoon (no less than seven feet) and waving it about from his spot several steps above them. He was wearing nothing but a green dressing gown, and his skin was white and damp with fever, but he was the most fearsome thing Amy had seen in all her travels in the TARDIS.

"—told me it would be good to have a friend stay while I recuperate, but evidently good means 'like being driven towards an idiotic and maddening death!' Everyone tells me not to worry, just rest, but if I don't stop you, you'll have a hole straight through my ceiling to my bloody cerebral cortex! You're the most poxy, po-faced, grotty, gormless wazzack in all of Angus, and if I—"

"What did you call me, you dozy knave?"

"I said that you, Arthur Doyle, are the biggest wazzack in all of Scotland, and if you ever approach my ceiling with that coatrack again, I will personally—"

Doyle flushed a dark purple-red as soon as he heard the word 'wazzack,' and charged towards Barrie with massive outstretched hands. The Doctor moved to stop the conflict, but pulled back just as Barrie hoisted up his harpoon and drove it home. Amy screamed involuntarily and the Doctor eyed the shaft of the harpoon sticking out centimeters away from his forehead. It had lodged deeply into the wall, trapping Doyle's top hat against the floral wallpaper.

The Doctor moved again to break up the fight, as Doyle had Barrie in a headlock, but both men were roaring with laughter.

"You're a terror to my health, you prat!" giggled Barrie.

"That was my best hat!" complained Doyle, who was actually laughing so hard he was crying.

"And what are you doing wearing the ridiculous thing at this time of day and in my house?"

"Well, someone has to be in the opera mood since you are not well enough to write it!"

"Ahem."

"Doctor!" Barrie staggered backward and clapped a hand to his heart. "Is that you?

"As a matter of fact, it is, but I've a new face, new hair, new _bowtie_."

"But you're the Doctor. You couldn't be anyone else," said Barrie firmly.

"You artist types," said the Doctor, shaking his head. "You're always able to see things you shouldn't."

"That may be, Doctor, but my friend Arthur is an especially pigheaded artist. I've been trying to convince him that the most amazing wonders are the ones you can see and touch, not some Spiritualist nonsense."

Doyle puffed his chest out importantly. "I've no idea what you're talking about James."

"No, you don't," said Barrie wickedly. "Doctor, couldn't we show him that blue box of yours? It would set him straight, and I'd quite like another look at it myself."

"Well—" said the Doctor.

That was precisely when the maid entered the room.

"Mr. Barrie, sir, and Mr. Doyle," she said. "Supper is…supper is…"

She had caught sight of the harpooned hat. She looked down at her shoes, squeaked "Supper is read," very quickly, and then made for the door as if her life depended on it.

"Just a moment, Margaret. We're going to be awhile, we have something to attend to. Now, Doctor, I insist, we must see your TAURUS."

And that was that.

* * *

><p>Amy tapped her foot against the glass floors of the TARDIS. She was surprised her growling stomach hadn't interrupted the Doctor and Barrie, but then, they had been in animated conversation for the last twenty minutes with no sign of stopping. Doyle had tired of their conversation too, and was wandering around the console room, letting his hands hover just above the strange knobs and buttons. He looked up at Amy as if just remembering that she was there.<p>

"This… TAURUS thing, it's bigger on the inside."

"Yep. Mmhmm. That's pretty much it," she said. She could think of eight things that were more incredible than the TARDIS at that moment, and they all involved salt, pepper, and liberal amounts of butter.

"But you're Scottish, like me," said Doyle. "How did you end up here?"

"I waited. Turns out you have to wait for a lot of things when you're with the Doctor." _Like breakfast, lunch, and dinner._

"And the TAURUS, what does it do? I presume it's a vehicle of some sort, because it certainly wasn't here before…"

"TARDIS," Amy corrected. It had suddenly dawned on her that she was talking to Arthur Conan Doyle, who would one day be Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and she might as well stop sulking about her lunch.

"It's said TARDIS, with a 'D.' And, yeah, it's a vehicle. It can go anywhere, and anytime."

"No, no, you're going too quickly," said Doyle. "I feel as though I should believe, now that I have all this in front of me, but I can't quite."

Amy laughed a little at that.

"How about you pretend I'm telling you a story, and after it all sinks in you can decide for yourself how much you want to believe. Sound fair?"

"Very. So, your story. If you say this is a vehicle that can go anywhere, _anytime_, then I might have to deduce (especially given your odd attire) that you are from some other period of time than this one."

"You said deduce!"

Doyle quirked an eyebrow.

"Don't you get started again," he warned, although he was half teasing her.

"I come from 2011."

"Oh? Not a thousand years in the future? Just a mere few decades?"

"Haven't you gotten disillusioned all of a sudden?" said Amy. "Now, I've started telling you my story, can I ask about yours? Nothing too annoying, I promise."

"Go on."

"What does Sherlock look like?"

"Sherlock? It sounds as if you know him well already."

"Not like you."

"Hardly matters. It's more a matter for the illustrator to decide."

"Yeah, but what do _you _think he looks like?"

"I don't care. He could be four feet tall with an enormous nose and ginger hair. No disrespect, of course," he backtracked quickly with his eyes on the bright red of Amy's hair. Amy didn't seem to mind.

"No, no. He's got to have dark hair, doesn't he? And he'd be tall. Blue eyes, or maybe grey."

Doyle looked bemusedly at her.

"Oh come on, a girl can dream."

"Er. Isn't it my turn to ask a question?" asked Doyle.

"Shoot."

"What does 2011 look like?"

"Boring. I mean, I love microwaves as much as the next person. And texting. And it's nice to just get in a car sometimes, and not slog around through some bog on Neptune on foot, but…"

"What's texting?"

It went on like that for some time, and they didn't notice that Barrie and the Doctor had gone further into the depths of the TARDIS, leaving them behind. Amy told Doyle about computers and automobiles, modern forensics and alien spaceships before her mind turned back to Doyle's fictional character.

"But seriously, what did you mean by 'getting rid of Holmes?'"

"Exactly what I said Miss Pond. He's driving me mad, and he's far too popular to just stop writing him. So I'll have to kill him off. Should shut them up."

"Oh. How are you planning to do it?" she asked, crestfallen.

"I'd tell you off for asking me to give up the story before it's published. I would, but I'm not going to, because I have no idea. Maybe I'll have him disappear into a blue box…"

Amy laughed at that, though she didn't really find it funny. She felt almost offended at his callousness, almost as though Sherlock Holmes was a real person and Doyle was some kind of callous murdering—

"Cheer up, Pond," called the Doctor. "You never read _The Adventure of the Empty House_, did you? Absolutely excellent. No need to worry about grumpy Mr. Doyle."

"I beg your pardon?" said Doyle.

"Nothing. What I mean to say is—"

"That we have waited far too long to go in to supper," supplied Barrie. "I've just been informed that Miss Pond hasn't eaten for an ungodly number of hours."

"Here's to that!" said Amy, but Doyle looked as if something wonderful had just been snatched away from him.

"But I'd only just begun to look around—"

"But—" said the Doctor. Doyle cut him off.

"And you have a tin of beans right here."


	3. The TARDIS at 221B

A/N: So, just in case you don't have series 5 of Doctor Who memorized, this takes place after "Cold Blood," when Rory falls through the crack in time. Also, shippers of various ships might want to wait for chapter four :P Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 3: The TARDIS at 221B

Amy was not exactly sure what had happened, or indeed how it had happened. She should probably be grateful that the swimming pool had materialized under her just in time; Doyle and the Doctor had hit the glass floor hard. Only Barrie remained on his feet. At present he was standing on the ceiling.

"Doctor!" Amy shouted.

"Doctor?" asked Barrie tentatively as his face turned purple-red.

But the Doctor's attention was fixed on Doyle.

"What were you thinking?"

"That's not quite fair, Doctor," said Amy. "It was your bloody idea to keep them in a tin of beans."

And that's how it had all started. The tin had popped open unexpectedly in Doyle's hands and _something_ had emerged. It had the same feeling as the TARDIS, somehow immense and miniscule at the same time. And then the Doctor had plunged his screwdriver into a socket in the console, the lights had flickered out and the door had flown half off its hinges.

Amy supposed that other worlds had flashed by the open door, but it was hard to tell from underwater. Now, as she climbed up onto the diving board, she heard the Doctor say, "No, I mean literally, what were you thinking? What were you thinking about before all…this?"

"I suppose I was thinking about my conversation with Miss Pond."

The Doctor paled. "And what did you talk about?"

"A good deal of different topics, I should think."

"Sherlock Holmes, your stories, did you talk about them?"

"Why yes—"

"This is possibly a bit _very _not good," muttered the Doctor. "Right, I don't want to seem rude, but you two need to leave. I'll just drop you off in—what year is it again?"

"1893," said Barrie. "But Doctor, I can't. Leave, I mean."

"You have to. We'll come back soon, but right now I've got a problem literally as big as the universe and—"

"No, I mean I can't leave because I seem to be stuck," said an increasingly red-faced Barrie. He tried and failed to lift a foot off the ceiling.

It took quite a bit of twiddling with the "gravitational widgety…thing…" as the Doctor called it, to get Mr. Barrie safely to the ground. As she watched him struggle to get the TARDIS controls working, Amy had no trouble believing that the Doctor had thrown the manual into a black hole. And yet she knew that there must be something else going on. What sort of problem could shake him so badly?

As soon as they turned to leave, Barrie and Doyle started squabbling again.

"Extraordinary—"

And: "Why did you have to open it?"

"I didn't do it!"

And: "Still think you're entirely too pigheaded—"

And finally: "But what _is _a Doll-Ick?"

The Doctor pulled the mangled door shut and ran over to the controls.

"Doctor, when you said we have a problem as big as the universe—" started Amy.

"I meant it. We have to go right _now._"

Amy jumped as the lights flickered again and the TARDIS shuddered under her feet.

"It doesn't normally do this, what's wrong with it?" she shouted over the noise.

"Our problem," he shouted back. "The universe exploding inside her. She might be bigger on the inside, but she's not _that_ big."

"Yeah. Wait, no. I don't get what you're saying at all. Where are we going?"

"The Lodnostus Universe!"

"The what?"

"The Lodnostus Universe. Every plant, animal, and star there was wiped out of existence centuries ago. And…we're here!"

He grabbed her by the hand and dragged her out the doors quicker than you could say 'come along, Pond.' Luckily the TARDIS had landed in a back alley, so no one seemed to notice. The main road was busy enough.

"Doctor, watch out!" shouted Amy.

It was her turn to pull him out of the way before a handsome cab flattened them onto the cobbled street.

"Very nice reflexes, Pond. Now, where to start?"

He licked his finger and held it up to the wind.

"Hang on a sec," said Amy. "I thought we were going to Loddy-Noss Universe or whatever. You know, everything all dead and gone a bazillion years ago like you said?"

"Yep. We're here. Only not quite. Back to the TARDIS!"

"Doctor!"

* * *

><p>For what felt like the hundredth time that day, the Doctor was fiddling with the console.<p>

And for the hundredth time Amy decided to interrupt him.

"Ok. You've got to start explaining things, because—"

"Shhh, Amy, please!"

"Oh no, not this time. You just said we were going to an empty dead universe and then we were out in the middle of some street a hundred years ago on Earth and now _you're _telling _me _that they're the same thing. Answers. Now."

The Doctor drew his hand back as sparks flew out of the "ketchup" button. Then he took an earnest look at Amy—always a bad move if you planned on disagreeing with her.

"Oh, Pond. I've been awful today. Ok. You remember what I said about the tin of beans? How it had shards of the universe in it, and if they came into contact with something that could think, they would establish their own timeline based on those thoughts, as if they always existed?"

"Not really, but go ahead."

"Sir Arthur Conan Doyle really did his worst on one of them. Poured his thoughts into it. Now, you've had a bit of a rubbish day," he said, and a smile broke out across his face. "But what do you say to tea with Sherlock Holmes?"

"Sherlock Holmes, like a _real person_?" said Amy very slowly.

"Yeah, brilliant, isn't it?"

"But—"

"The funny thing is, I just checked Victorian London, and there's no trace of him. Hang on, I'm gonna try something…"

He pointed his screwdriver at the monitor and typed in a few unintelligible words.

"But Doctor, what about the platypus?"

"What about it? Oh, that's _very _interesting. Probably your fault, too."

"What do you mean my fault?"

"I'll tell you in a minute. What did you want to know about the platypus?"

"Well," said Amy, biting her lip," you said that they're everywhere because they were woven through the universe like they always existed. Doesn't this mean that Sherlock Holmes is…everywhere?" she asked nervously.

The Doctor laughed and then shuddered. "Sherlock Holmeses in every corner of the universe? That's the most disturbing thing I've heard all day. No, I isolated the fragment. The Lodnostus Universe _used _to be empty. The perfect place for a universe to explode into existence. It's just a good thing we were in the Time Vortex when it happened, otherwise we would have had a universe inside of a universe and no one wants to see that. Well, actually…."

"You mean Doyle didn't create just one thing, he made a whole universe?"

"It's the universe of Sherlock Holmes. An exact copy of yours, but with a few…extras. Everything you were talking about. Which is why I think _this _has happened," he said. He pointed to the monitor.

It read:

Name: Sherlock Holmes

Residence: 221B Baker Street

Born: 1976, London

"1976?"

"Yeah. That's your contribution, because you told Doyle about modern times as you know them. I bet it's not the only thing that's been changed around…"

* * *

><p>"Oh, sod it all!"<p>

John Watson pulled himself up on his chair and nearly slipped again on the photographs strewn all across the floor. His fall had scattered the neat little piles Sherlock had made, and at the moment John didn't give a damn about any of it. It wasn't even a real case, just his flatmate's insistence that 'Something isn't _right _with it!_' _

John gave a look back at the mess and turned away. Sherlock would deal with it when he emerged from his room (whatever day of the week that might be).

The buzzer went off.

* * *

><p>"No, no, what've you done?" said the Doctor incredulously.<p>

Amy raised her eyebrows. "What? I let them know we were here so they can let us in. What was I supposed to do?"

"We are about to meet the most astute man that never existed, and we don't even have a reason to be here! We need to bring him a case, but I can't think…"

And he couldn't. Amy was at his side, silently asking for answers, and then there was the possibility of a very real, living, breathing Sherlock Holmes about to open the door, but most of all, there was a crack…. A crack in the door, just at the bottom. If you broke the hinges and carried the door away, or bashed it to pieces with a battering ram, or obliterated it with a sonic blaster, it would still be there, a crack in time and space.

Amy hadn't noticed it, but she still managed to say the one thing that could make his hearts contract in a panic.

"My fiancé's gone missing."

He had not a clue what to say. He could feel the little box with her engagement ring in his pocket, but she wasn't even paying attention to him. Was Rory there, somewhere on the other side of the crack? But before he could open his mouth she started beating wildly at the door. And the crack blazed bright white before sealing itself shut.

* * *

><p>"What now?" John hurried down the stairs, wondering if their visitor was actually <em>trying <em>to break down the door. He was surprised when he opened it to find himself facing a distraught redhead who forced her way in without asking and dragged a confused looking, gangly man behind her.

"He's gone, just clean gone, and all our money too!"

"Alright, just slow down," he said. "Are you here to see—"

"Sherlock Holmes! Please, no one else can find him and I don't know what to do…"

"Ok, ok, er…why don't you come up and sit and I'll…tell him you want to see him."

"Thank you!" said Amy breathlessly.

_No one else can find him._ Well, Sherlock's ego would like that, John thought. He didn't notice Amy's smug glance, or the way neither of his visitors could help smiling as they mouthed _221B!_

* * *

><p>Sherlock's room was perfectly clean, perfectly quiet, and, it appeared, perfectly empty as John stepped inside.<p>

"Sherlock? I think there're some people who want to talk to you about a case if you'll come out—"

"I have a case-two of them, actually."

"No you haven't, you've got a—never mind. Where the hell are you anyway?"

"Here!" said a voice from behind him.

Suddenly Sherlock was standing in the middle of the room, bearing a six foot harpoon and wearing a new, bright green dressing gown.

"He's a ventriloquist John, that's how he caught them off guard!"

"Right, well—wait, did you just—?"

"Throws his voice! I've solved it!"

"Congratulations," said John sarcastically. "Now, I know you don't like to be without a case, so if you'll just come in here…"

"Oh no," muttered John. The clients took one look at Sherlock, looked at each other, then back at them.

"Did someone say harpoon?" asked the man.

"Yes, it's all sorted," said John wearily. "Miss, you said your fiancé disappeared with your money?"

"Let her tell the story, John," said Sherlock. "Although the fact that he disappeared with _all _their savings didn't tell you from the start? Even you lot could work that one out."

The woman looked around as if hoping someone else would answer and swallowed.

"Right, er…he didn't disappear with all our money, but he did disappear! And, and I don't know what to do. I was hoping you could find—"

"With that treasure trove of information? Of course, I'll just hop into my locator suit and fly off to find him, shall I?" snapped Sherlock.

The other visitor, the one with the bowtie, looked at the sleuth in horror for a moment before realizing that Holmes was being sarcastic. Apparently he thought there were such things as 'locator suits' and that Sherlock might have one. John was starting to get the feeling that this was going to be a strange case, even by their standards.

"Who is this anyway?" asked Sherlock, pointing to man in the bowtie. "He's not your fiancé, but you don't make a move without him. Act like all the answers come from him. Maybe that's why your groom-to-be ran off."

The man winced at this.

"He—he's my brother!" said the woman. The 'brother' raised his eyebrows but composed himself quickly.

"Yes, my sister's had a very troubling day, and I can tell you, we haven't found a single person in the London police who can find…Ricky."

And so Amy left it up to the Doctor to spin their story. It was the familiar green dressing gown and harpoon that had caught the Doctor's attention, but she saw more. _He's got to have dark hair, doesn't he? And he'd be tall. Blue eyes, or maybe grey. _Sherlock Holmes looked _exactly _the way she had always pictured him (if a bit younger and sans deerstalker).

"You see, there was this hound," said the Doctor.

"Funny, I don't remember seeing you at Dartmoore," Sherlock cut in. "Do you enjoy John's blog? He couldn't resist romanticizing the Baskerville case, and the readers are devouring it like a novel. You're the first to plagiarize from my own casebook without expecting me to notice, though."

"Oh," said the Doctor. "What I meant to say was that there was this _greyhound_ that Ricky was walking for the neighbor (although it wasn't grey, I have yet to meet a grey greyhound) and the dog came running back on it's own, and Ricky was gone!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes but asked a few follow-up questions.

John was muddled as usual when Sherlock cross-examined his potential clients. At first it seemed certain that Amy and the self-proclaimed "doctor" were lying through there teeth. But why was Sherlock entertaining their charade? Did he think there was something to it?

"Forgive me, but you don't seem very upset," said the detective. The redhead, Amy, jumped at this.

"It's the…shock," she answered shakily.

Well, she did seem confused and wearied, whatever else was going on. John could relate to that. Sherlock continued to look on suspiciously.

"Why are you holding your stomach?"

"Oh!" said the Doctor. "That. I suppose she's peckish. Perhaps we could continue this interview after we've had a bite—"

"No need, you're welcome to whatever we have here," John heard himself saying.

"Thank you and everyone you know!" cried Amy.

And before he could say 'you're welcome,' she had leapt to her feet and run to the kitchen.

"Wait!"

Too late.

"Oh, for God's sake!" Sherlock said over the scream. He put his hand over his eyes, which John would liked to have done too, for very different reasons.

"Are you alright, Amy?" called the Doctor, reaching for something in his pocket.

"A head! There's a head! In the _refrigerator_!"

John walked over and carefully shut the head back up behind the door before walking Amy back to her seat.

"Of course there's a head," said Sherlock coldly. "Only an idiot wouldn't have expected it, the signs are all over the kitchen for anyone to read."

"Sherlock, stop it." John hadn't been this mortified since the incident involving Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock, and an experiment with the can opener and the floorboards.

"Stop it?" said Sherlock. "I'm just getting started. Now, tell me the truth about this case before I throw you both out for wasting my time."

The Doctor frowned for a moment.

"All right, you want the truth?" he asked. "My sister's fiancé, my future brother-in-law, wasn't walking a greyhound at all. He was walking home alone at four in the morning and he disappeared right off the street and all he left behind was a sign on the sidewalk. A sign of the number four. And if you're not interested in helping us, I'm going to take Amy to get something to eat before she keels over from weakness—"

"Wait. Did you say a sign of four?" Sherlock's whole manner had changed. His eyes were fixed on the Doctor and John could see the wheels starting to fly into a frenzy. What the hell was a sign of four?

"This changes things. I'll start on the case right now. But I need you to answer all of my questions truthfully," Sherlock warned.

"That's wonderful!" said the Doctor (a little too exuberantly in John's opinion). "But I still need to look after Amy…"

"I can take her to the Chinese place around the corner…if that's alright with you?" said John, addressing the last part to Amy. He might not have a clue what was going on, but he did know that this woman didn't deserve the kind of treatment his friend was giving her.

Sherlock clapped his hands together. "Yes, why don't you do that, John. I just need to talk to the Doctor for now."

"See you in a bit," said the Doctor.

Instead of replying, Amy gasped and tried to catch herself as she slipped on one of the stacks of photographs Sherlock had left on the ground. John helped her steady herself before quickly putting his hands in his pockets.

"All right there?" he asked.

"Yeah, fine. Sorry about your pictures..."

She stared down at them. The entire stack had spread across the floor, revealing shots that detailed every angle of a cemetery.

"It's fine, they shouldn't have been there in the first place," he assured her. "Want to get going?"

"Yeah…thanks."

Sherlock continued plying the Doctor with questions and took no notice of their leaving.

Or so it seemed.

"Now, what's this all about? I know there is no missing 'Ricky the fiancé.' So why are you here?"

"I know you know. That's why you went along with my little 'sign of four' red herring. You wanted to get rid of them," said the Doctor with a knowing smile.

"So did you. That seems callous, from what I can tell of you. What about the girl?"

"Pond? No, she's wonderful! She's also a walking disaster when she's hungry, as I've come to find out."

Mad, brilliant Pond, who came up with a ridiculous cover story and never once guessed how close it was to the truth.

"So, what are you here for?" Sherlock asked again. For the first time his lips were turned up in a cat's smile.

"I'm not quite sure yet."

* * *

><p>It was beautiful. Steam rising up off golden chow mein noodles, juicy kung pao chicken resting on pearly white rice. But there was one more obstacle in her way.<p>

"Never learned how to use these dratted things," said Amy. The chopsticks slipped out of her fingers again.

"Here, it's like this."

Watson (no, _John_, he had told her to call him John) placed her fingers around the utensils and then dropped his gaze quickly. But Amy wasn't so shy. Was John Watson, the dashing army doctor from her favorite stories _flirting _with her?

"So you come here a lot then?" she asked.

"Well, sometimes, after cases. It's open late…Actually, we came here after our first case with the cabby—"

"And the pills."

"You read my blog."

Amy blinked. He had a blog?

"Sorry, no. I must have heard about it somewhere else." She really would have to be careful about 'foreknowledge' or whatever it was the Doctor called it. Time to play dumb.

"So John, I know Sherlock's a detective, but what about you?"

His hand was close to hers on the table. How many times did you get the chance to snog your favorite book characters? She'd been a kissogram, and she'd certainly kissed a lot worse…

There was no way he didn't notice the way she was leaning in. He didn't seem to mind it though.

"Well, I'm…I'm…" and now he was tripping over his tongue. "I'm a doctor."

That hit her like a ton of bricks. There was a wonderful, ordinary, patient man across the table from her, who followed a madman around and helped the sick and injured in his spare time. Why did she suddenly feel grief-stricken? Like a painful memory had been rehashed?

"Amy, are you all right?"

She wiped tears from her cheeks and stared at her wet fingers in confusion.

"Fine," she answered. "It's just…my fiancé was a medical man."

The tears were welling up again. Why had she said that? It was a good story, but she hadn't even meant to say it.

"Ah," said John. "Of course you're not ok. I'm sorry, that was a stupid question. But Sherlock will find him. He'll probably have him on your doorstep faster than it took the Yard to get your statement."

* * *

><p>Back at the flat Sherlock slammed his fist down on the table.<p>

"Careful, you'll scare your housekeeper," said the Doctor disapprovingly.

"Mrs. Hudson isn't our housekeeper, she's our landlady."

"Really? That's interesting…."

"You are incurably thick!" said Sherlock, rubbing his temples.

"Thick? I thought I was insane. You said so not five minutes ago, several times."

"You _have _to be insane, even if you don't act it, but you don't _have _to be thick. Oh, why do the promising ones always have to turn out so dull?"

Something was…_flickering_, there, close to the floor. Sherlock had his back to it and even the Doctor didn't notice at first. But he was never one to leave it alone, the thing in the corner of the eye, just where you never want to look.

"Shush, Shshhhhhh!" he said, flapping his arms and cutting Sherlock off mid-complaint. "I thought I saw—"

And it was gone.

* * *

><p><em>Right, bedside manner. Remember bedside manner. It's just like at the hospital. Amy must be worried out of her mind for her fiancé. <em>Except John couldn't really muster up any concern for the elusive 'Ricky.'

It was getting dark and very cold as they walked back to Baker's Street from The Golden Dragon. Amy was wiping her eyes with her sleeve.

"Hey, thanks for dinner," she said.

"It's no trouble—"

"And I'm sorry for falling apart on you."

"It's really no problem," he said again. "Sherlock always solves his cases in the end, but he puts his clients through the mill first. So if there's anything else I can do…"

"Is that an invitation?"

John's eyes darted toward her with a guarded look.

"It's just, I want to get my mind off things…"

Still he said nothing. He was waiting to hear what the request really was.

Amy mustered up a smile. "I don't know if you can tell me about those pictures I knocked over at your flat. But I'm dying of curiosity."

"Oh. Sure." The tension had broken and he smiled a bit at the chance to vent to someone.

"It's not even a case, really. There was this man named Grimesby Roylott who was murdered in West Norwood Cemetery a few years ago. It's a cold case now, but last week his brother went missing. He was visiting the same grave, and that's the last that anyone's seen of him. We all know it's odd, but Sherlock's gone and connected it to every other crime he hears about just because he's bored."

"How do you know they're not connected? I mean, he is Sherlock Holmes," Amy pointed out.

John laughed with her. "Yes, he's Sherlock Holmes, which means nicotine patches and two crisps a day when he's _on a case_ and despondency, impromptu firearms practice, and a conviction that everything is part of some grand intrigue when he's _not_. Including Shinwell Johnson."

"Who's Shinwell Johnson?"

"Haven't you been watching the news?"

"No," said Amy. "Been a bit busy."

"Well, he was murdered five days ago. I'm guessing you haven't seen the reports about the baby that went missing from Charing Cross Hospital yesterday either."

"No."

John's voice became sober now as he recounted the crime. "Shinwell Johnson was clinically insane. The past couple of weeks he'd been asking the Yard for protection because he thought someone was after him. They would have had him committed, except he died first. The part no one can figure out, even Sherlock, is that he said he would be murdered by a man named Jack Stapleton. He also predicted exactly where, when, and how he'd be killed, and he was right. But Jack Stapleton doesn't exist, there aren't any records of him."

"Maybe it's an alias," suggested Amy.

"It doesn't matter if it is or not," said John. "It still doesn't explain the fact that a baby that was born four days after the murder disappeared from Charing Cross Hospital. His name was Jack Stapleton."

"Wait," said Amy. "The murderer was born four days after the murder?"

"Well, obviously he can't be the murderer, but it doesn't make any sense. The victim had no connection with the Stapleton family, and it's one hell of a coincidence that a kid with the same name as our prospective murderer happened to go missing. Amy?"

She wasn't next to him anymore. She had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and was mouthing something to herself.

"Amy, what's wrong?"

"I think they are connected.

John closed his eyes and shook his head as if trying to bring everything into focus. It didn't work.

"Amy, I shouldn't have bothered you with all this. You don't need to be thinking about it. Things must be difficult enough—"

"What's difficult?"

"Your…your fiancé," he said, narrowing his eyes. She had forgotten? Something was very wrong here.

"Something's wrong," Amy said, almost at the same time he thought it (which did nothing for his nerves). Abruptly, she grabbed the front of his jacket. "John, where did you say they happened, where those people were killed or disappeared from? Where was it?"

"What are you—what's—" he said, looking into her frantic eyes. "Er, two were at Norwood cemetery, Johnson was killed a few blocks from Hyde Park, and I told you the kid disappeared from the hospital. I don't understand what you're saying…"

"Were there any more?" Amy asked urgently. "Anything else that could be connected?"

"Well, there was a guard that went missing at the exact same time as the cemetery disappearance, but there aren't any similarities. I don't understand why you're—"

"Where? The cemetery?"

"No, Buckingham Palace. It's been kept quiet, but the last place he was seen was by the Victoria Memorial…."

"Oh my God! We have to get back!" she shouted.

"What? Wha—"

And he was yanked by the wrist as Amy started running flat out.

* * *

><p>The Doctor was resting his head in his hands and staring at his knees.<p>

"You're not going to find it anywhere," he said for the twentieth time. Which wasn't helping anything. Telling Sherlock he couldn't find something (something like the Doctor's name, for instance) was an insult to his deductive powers and a challenge to prove the statement false. Next time he would have to have a more convincing alias than 'John Smith.'

Sherlock was absorbed in his laptop and still had his back to the stack of photos on the floor. The figure flickered above one picture in particular, larger this time and more opaque. But when the Doctor rubbed his eyes and looked up, there was nothing to be seen.


End file.
